nothing can return the pure hands i once had
where hearts played with just feelings of joy
and freeness of what was... not what may brew
where strings were white... filled with cotton softness and purity
not filled with blood...not filled with tears
where crossed strings meet, i no longer wish to hold them
hanging sleeves, daggered hearts and broken wishes
hang heavy on these... strings... that... stain my hand
when eyes roll rivers, and mouths scream storms
when hearts stop beating, and thoughts grew cold
where records stop spinning and tunes go off key
the world stop swirling... all because of...
where crossed strings meet, i no longer wish to hold them
for nothing is a play, nor a scene, nor a frame
when no one can recognize themselves
when they can't stand on their own
this hand cannot hold the weight of it
carrying a league of "pieces and shards"
only collecting bad memories and scabs
shoulders have grown weary
eyes have dimmed grey...
when did this all start?
these hands no longer wish to stay
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